


If You Are Lost, Come Find Me

by Shazrolane, Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Gen, He Gets a Hug, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sick Bucky Barnes, and a hospital, matt no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10919529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane/pseuds/Shazrolane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: Steve is holding his own and then some—he's already taken down four men to Matt's two; Matt's just about redundant—but that still leaves seven on their feet, and Steve can't deal with them all.Matt throws his club at Seven, who's trying to shoot Steve in the back while he takes care of Six. Steve's fast, though. Six hasn't even hit the ground when Steve turns and his arm comes up in time to deflect the dart. Which shouldn't be possible, except the dart bounces off with a tiny, metallicclang.What the hell?This guy isn't Steve. He's someone else. Someone who smells like Steve and moves like him, but who's not quite as tall, Matt realizes, even if he's just as heavy. And his left arm smells like a hot engine.





	If You Are Lost, Come Find Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Someone](https://youtu.be/dt5zuJLgsI4) by Basia Bulat.
> 
> This is a prequel/companion story to [Ashes for My History](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10605057).

Two days after New Year, 2016, Matt hears Steve Rogers being attacked at a construction site.

Matt's close enough to hear it because he was certain whatever's being built (more condos according to Google, as if the 1% need more million dollar homes) is just a façade for something far less lofty and much darker. He didn't think the Avengers would be interested in the street-level evils he deals with, but he only knows one person with that scent, size and weight.

Whoever is going after Steve, they aren't trying to be subtle about it. Definitely not the Hand, then, especially since he can also smell the acidic residue of Kevlar. No bullet propellant, oddly enough. Maybe the wind is dispersing it.

Now that he's closer there's a new scent as well: something so much like a hot engine he tries to place the vehicle it must belong to. But he can't.

Doesn't matter. Steve needs him. The odds are astronomical: thirteen against one, and that's with three men already on the ground. And the way they're moving, Matt's pretty sure they're combat trained. What he doesn't get is why they're carrying...animal tranquilizers? The bullets are sloshing and smell like a dentist's office. So, yes, they're tranquilizers. They want Steve captured, not killed.

He leaps lightly off the roof he's on, hits the opposite fire escape and jumps off that too, alternating landings until he's safely on the street. He times his entrance to the fight for when he's almost certain the attackers are facing the wrong direction. He kicks the closest guy in the stomach, making sure his boot connects under his vest. Something gives with a wet implosion and the guy goes down like a brick.

Matt whirls, instinctively ducks before he really registers the dart coming at him. That attacker gets a stick thrown into his groin, then a heavy whack to his temple when Matt closes up to him and grabs his weapon back.

Two down.

Steve is holding his own and then some—he's already taken down four men to Matt's two; Matt's just about redundant—but that still leaves seven on their feet, and Steve can't deal with them all.

Matt throws his club at Seven, who's trying to shoot Steve in the back while he takes care of Six. Steve's fast, though. Six hasn't even hit the ground when Steve turns and his arm comes up in time to deflect the dart. Which shouldn't be possible, except the dart bounces off with a tiny, metallic _clang._ What the hell?

This guy isn't Steve. He's someone else. Someone who smells like Steve and moves like him, but who's not quite as tall, Matt realizes, even if he's just as heavy. And his left arm smells like a hot engine. When he snatches Six's knife and sends it into Five's throat, Matt can hear a tiny grinding noise.

Matt dives and rolls out of the way of Four's shot while Engine Arm literally punches Three's face in. but that puts him directly in the line of fire of number Two.

Matt reacts without thinking, throwing himself into Engine to push him out of the way of the shot. It's like throwing himself into a concrete wall. Engine barely staggers, which doesn't get him out of the way. But he lifts his left hand and the dart bounces off his palm. Engine rips the tranquilizer gun out of Three's dead hands and fires it at Two. The man barely twitches before he drops.

Two men left.

Matt runs at One, dodging another dart that flies so close to his side he can feel the rush of air. He's thrown both his sticks, but he feints a punch and when One dodges he kicks him in the head.

He never finds out what Engine does to the last assailant still standing, but he hears a hoarse, desperate yell of _DOWN!_ , and he dives. Only not fast enough to avoid the dart that buries itself in his upper arm.

He's barely registered the pain before he's yanked the dart out and then he's on his side in the snow with no memory of falling. He tries to get up, but he can't. He—

* * *

They're trying to take him in, not kill him. Bad choice. If they killed him they could probably revive him, like they do every time they pull him out of the ice. But alive, he'll never stop fighting.

He blocks another dart, then throws a knife at the Hydra mook with the tranq gun. The knife doesn't hit, but that's not the point. His target ducks straight into the metal fist.

Perfect. Except that now the fist is stuck inside the asshole's skull. It takes a second to yank it out, which is just enough time for one dart to nick his arm. He throws the faceless corpse at the shooter and he goes down in a heap. But there are still eleven more Hydra to deal with.

He doesn't know who this new guy is with the stupid red outfit who suddenly joins the fight, but he's hitting Hydra so right now he's not a concern. _Enemy of my enemy…._

Is something. Something good, but he can't remember the word.

But hell, the U.S. has plenty of allies, right? No sense turning down help against the Krauts, even if he dresses funny. Maybe he's Russian.

Too bad Bucky lost his rifle somewhere. It was a damn good one. At least he's no slouch with his fists. Mac in the devil suit's not bad either.

Bucky grabs a knife and sends it into the next Nazi asshole's throat. And then his ally slams into him, knocking him off balance. Idiot. He doesn't need that. The metal hand deflects the dart easily, then he grabs a gun from one of the corpses and shoots the Hydra agent who shot him.

He loses track of his red ally after that, until his last attacker shoots reflexively as he dies. He yells for Steve—no, the red one—to get down, and he does. But it's too late. He sees him fall and stop moving.

He can't see or hear more attackers, but they need to leave, get somewhere safe. Protect the handler.

His handler is breathing but it's shallow. He's pale. Can't leave him. He hoists the man up over his shoulders, ignoring the way the actuators stutter in the arm. He's got a place close that he doesn't use too often; he can afford to lose it. Old factory, full of machines.

It's getting cold. Wind's picking up, blowing angry flakes of snow with it. He has to find shelter before Mickle bleeds to death. Unless the poor bastard freezes first. Where the hell's Morita when you need him?

The factory is barely warmer than outside, but at least it's out of the wind. He lays the…. The handler down on the cardboard. He needs better than dusty, flattened boxes, but it's all there is. He puts the handler on his side in a recovery position, makes certain his airway is clear, covers him with his blanket. Then he settles down to keep watch.

He expects the man in the devil suit to die. He doesn't know why he hasn't already. Those darts were meant for the Asset. An ordinary man should've been dead before he hit the ground.

Stupid, stupid way to die. He's not worth it.

He needs to light a fire, but this place has nothing. Illya likes to pretend their abilities are the same, but he can't heal as fast as Vanya, and he'll heal even more slowly in this cold. If the storm keeps up, Vanya won't be able to get them both to the rendezvous. He knows Illya puts on a brave face, but the way he's bleeding….

No. Illya's missing. Vanya was looking for him. Did he find—?

There is a sudden, violent lack of sound when the man's breathing stops.

 _Illya,_ he thinks, and for a bare moment he can't move for terror. And then he blinks and the world settles and he's in New York and the one not breathing is the man in the stupid red devil suit. He knows how to breathe for him, how to use his hands (gently! Gently, so he won't crush his heart or stave in his ribs) to keep blood flowing through his heart.

The hardest part is keeping the breaths easy, even when his own heart is pounding like he's still in the middle of the fight. Keep the breaths easy so he won't destroy his lungs; don't press too hard on his ordinary heart.

He only has to go through the cycle of thirty compressions, two breaths, thirty compressions, three times before the devil's heart and lungs remember how to work on their own. He takes off the devil's helmet mask (it should be blue, not red. He doesn't know why he's so sure of that), then his gloves, holding the icy fingers between his palms until they're warm. He takes off the man's boots and does the same thing for his feet. He knows how hard it is to warm up after cyro, and the heating gear never seems to do much.

* * *

Matt fights his way out of dark and cold that clings like it wants to drown him. Was he in the water? Bleeding. He was bleeding, right? He came to kill Fisk, but it was Nobu. His chest hurts every time he breathes, but he should be bleeding.

His mask is gone. What happened to his mask?

But he can't smell his blood. And this…this isn't his home. It's dark and very cold and…He can't see. The fire's gone. He can't _see_ —

"Stay down."

He goes still, trying to place that voice, but he can't find him. He can…. There's old metal, and concrete. A soft weight holding him down. Wool? He can hear scraping, minute clinking underneath. He's lying on something…wood? Cardboard? He presses his fingertips to it, feeling the material. Cardboard. It's cardboard. He's in a place with cardboard and unused machinery.

Just being able to know something for certain is an incredible relief, but that's the only thing Matt knows. There's a scent that's familiar, somehow, even though he can't remember it. He doesn't know where he is, and the sounds make no sense, and….

The machines around him haven't been used in years, so why can he smell a hot engine? Is there a car here? He can't hear anything other than the metal sounds and his ragged, terrified breathing. He feels like he's losing his mind.

He's so tired. He just wants to sleep. But he can't. He's not safe here. He can't be safe if he doesn't know where he _is_ ….

"Who's there?" Matt tries to focus, searching for anything that will translate his environment into something he understands. There's nothing, except the pain in his chest and the aching need to sleep pulling at him like a weight.

"It's all right, _Bratik_ , you can sleep. I'll keep watch." It's the same male voice. He sounds Russian, which makes Matt's blood run colder than it already feels, though he can't remember why.

Russian is bad, though; he knows that much. Matt shifts away automatically, trying to make his arms and legs work. He needs to get out of here, but he has no strength. He's shaking too hard, and the thing covering him is so heavy, holding him down. "Who…?" He's panting with fear. It feels like a hammer on his chest with every inhale. "Where…where…?"

"It's all right, we're safe here." The stranger who smells like a hot engine puts his hand on Matt's back.

Matt flinches, but there's no pain, just warmth seeping into him. The warmth makes him shiver harder before it penetrates at all, but it helps a little.

"Shh. Shh. It's all right. It's just us. No handlers or technicians yet. We have some time."

The words trickle through Matt's head like black water, with no meaning or referent except one: he knows this isn't all right. He's not all right. "It hurts. I can't see."

The stranger mutters in Russian, then Matt is suddenly hauled upright. He gasps in shock and pain and hears an apology, but he's still held tight against the body of the other man. He's wrapped up, in his blanket and the man's arms. It's almost impossible to move. He tries to fight, but he's just held more tightly.

"You're still too cold, that's all. It just takes time. Remember, Illya? I promise, it will be better once you're warm." A small, unhappy sigh. "I wish I had warming gear. I don't know why the handlers didn't leave us any."

 _Illya?_ Is that a name? What are handlers? Matt can't understand anything.

"I…I don't…. That's…." He can't remember what words he wanted. It's so hard to think. He can barely keep his eyes open.

"I'll watch. Don't worry. It's safe, bratik. You're safe. Go to sleep."

Matt doesn't want to. He doesn't know what's going on, what happened to him or where he is. He doesn't know _anything._ But, he's warming by increments, and the heartbeat right behind him is steady and slow. The stranger isn't lying, isn't anticipating anything, and he isn't afraid.

Matt doesn't feel safe, but the man who smells like a hot engine does. And that's lulling enough that Matt's not even aware of it when he shuts his eyes.

* * *

Matt can feel the barest touch of sunlight on his face the next time he wakes.

He's lying on cardboard, chilled but not cold enough to be shivering. He knows that's different than how he…passed out?...before. He remembers being warmer and being held upright. He remembers being afraid and in pain, but falling asleep anyway. He's pretty sure he was drugged, but he can't dredge up the energy it takes to remember.

At least when he tries to sit up his body obeys him. His chest aches and the world does a slow spin, but he doesn't keel over or pass out again so that's all right.

He still can't see. It doesn't matter how hard he concentrates, his world on fire just...isn't. It's gone. There are bare impressions, but nothing more definite than what his senses can tell him individually: it's cold; he's sitting on cardboard; this is an old building with broken windows. It was probably some kind of factory, since it smells like machines.

There's a man sitting nearby. He smells familiar and also like a hot car engine.

Matt's heart stutters in panic before he has the distinct sense memory of literally falling asleep in this man's arms. If the stranger wanted him dead, he wouldn't still be here.

"Hey, welcome back to the land of the living," the man says. His voice sounds so different from Matt's hazy memories that for a moment he thinks he's with someone else until he recognizes his companion's scent all over again. He sounds completely American now. Like a New Yorker, even. Any trace of Russian is gone.

The man slides a bit closer with an oddly metallic scrape along the wall. Buckles on his clothing? "What unit are you with? How you feeling?"

Matt blinks stupidly, trying to parse out what that could possibly mean. "Unit?"

"Boy, you got your bell rung pretty good, didn't you?" the stranger—Matt starts calling him 'Engine' in his head; thinks he might've done that before—clicks his tongue sympathetically. "You know, the guys you were with before you got lost?" When all that gets him is Matt's uncomprehending silence, Engine pats him companionly on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. We'll figure it out, get you back where you belong."

"But, you're Russian," Matt says, both hands over his chest because it hurts so damn much. The shift in Engine's accent makes the least sense of any of this.

Engine gives a shocked laugh. "What? Hell no. I'm from Brooklyn!" He pats Matt's shoulder again, still chuckling, then leaves his hand there like they're friends. "That's a riot. I ain't even talked to the Russkies, though I've seen some of 'em. Good fighters. Tough as hell. Glad to have 'em on our side. Say, you got any idea where we are? I can't see any of my team."

Matt scrubs his face, remembering just then that his mask is gone. He can't figure out what Engine is talking about. Maybe it'd be easier if he wasn't so tired. He just woke up but it's still a struggle to keep his eyes open. "Are we in Brooklyn?"

He expects an immediate confirmation, but his only answer is a long, uneasy silence.

"We're still in the war." Engine's voice is deeply, carefully gentle, as if Matt's the one not making sense. He squeezes Matt's shoulder. "But I'm going to get you back to your unit, okay? Don't you worry about that. You're safe with me, buddy."

 _Safe._ He said that before, in a different voice but with the same kindness and concern. It's as if Engine understands what a rare commodity safety is in Matt's world. Maybe it's equally rare for both of them. The thought is somehow both comforting and extremely sad.

But Matt doesn't know what war he means. Unless…Unless he means Stick's war? Is that it?

Fuck. Engine's the right age, and God only knows how many other kids Stick tried to break and reform to his own brutal design. Maybe Stick thought Engine was too weak and abandoned him, just like he did Matt. The idea Stick could do that _again_ makes Matt sick with anger. "Are you one of Stick's soldiers?"

But, "Stick?" Engine asks, like he's never heard of the name. "Naw. I'm with the Howling Commandoes!" He sounds proud, leaves an expectant silence like Matt's supposed to know what he's talking about. "With the 107th?" he adds when it's clear Matt doesn't. "C'mon, you heard of us. Captain America!"

Everyone's heard of Captain America, but that's the only part Matt understands. "Who are you? Why were those men trying to shoot you with tranquilizer darts?"

Engine doesn't answer that, says nothing for long enough that when he finally speaks again Matt startles awake.

"Must'a hit my head, 'cause I don't remember that," Engine says. Matt doesn't know if he's talking about being attacked or his name. Engine's worried though; Matt's heard that kind of stress in someone's voice before. Engine takes his hand off Matt's shoulder, cards it through his hair by the sound of it. Matt feels colder without that point of connection.

Engine smirks, but his heartbeat has sped up. "Matter of fact, I must'a smacked my melon real good, 'cause I can't remember where we are, exactly. Is this Italy?"

"Italy?" Matt parrots. "No." He shakes his head, then regrets it when it makes the darkness around him rotate again. "Not Italy. This is New York. I think it's New York. It has to be New York." But he doesn't know anymore. He has no idea how long he was unconscious; has no idea where he is now. This could be anywhere. Even Italy. "It…it has to be. Please…." He doesn't know what he's asking for, but his fire's out and he doesn't know where he is. It's terrifying.

Engine shifts closer to him, puts his arm around Matt's shoulders and tugs him against his side. It makes Matt hiss in pain, but he didn't realize he'd started shivering again until he feels Engine's warm, unmoving solidity. "Hey, hey, it's all right," he says, so gently that Matt's sure he'd be ashamed of how badly he's losing it if he wasn't so grateful for the reassurance. "I know you want to go home. We all do. I got…a sweetheart back in Brooklyn that I'd give my fuckin' life to see again. But we gotta win this war first. Make the world safe for everybody."

"What war?" Matt reaches for Engine's opposite wrist, instinctively trying to find an anchor in an environment he can barely quantify. He fumbles weakly before he manages to put his hand around it. It's solid in a way flesh isn't, and shockingly warm.

Engine gasps and yanks his wrist away.

"Sorry," Matt says faintly. He rubs his forehead, then startles himself because he forgot his mask is gone again. "I don't know what's going on. I thought you were Russian."

"I Told you, I'm from Brooklyn." Engine takes his arm from Matt's shoulders then rubs his left wrist. He's nervous, verging on frightened. "Whatever they gave you messed you up bad."

"Yeah." That's the one thing he's sure of. "I can't think." He rubs his sore sternum, hoping the sharp pain will wake him up. "Where are my gloves?" He forgot about them, just like he keeps forgetting he's not in his mask. And where are his boots? "And my mask? And boots? Do you have them?"

"Yeah. They're over there." Maybe Engine points; Matt can't see it.

His gear might as well be on the moon. _Don't reveal your weakness_. It's Stick's voice, hissing the warning in his head. _Weakness is death_. Matt's already vulnerable, already horribly exposed to this complete stranger; he can't let Engine know about his biggest vulnerability of all. "Would you mind getting them for me?"

"Still wobbly, huh? Sure, pal. You stay right there." Engine gets up, goes somewhere else in the large room, then comes back with what smells distinctly like Matt's helmet, gloves and boots in his hands. "Here." He holds them out. "When did you change your outfit, anyway?"

"What do you mean? The black one? A couple months ago." Matt does his best to reach for his gear, not just grope blindly. He bumps Engine's hand, but doesn't think that reveals too much. Just holding the missing parts of his uniform makes him feel better. He needs to put it on, but the idea of it is exhausting. "Thank you."

"Anytime." Engine sits down next to him again, then rewraps Matt in his arm. The warmth of his body is so good. "You're still shaking," he explains quietly.

"Oh." Matt hadn't noticed again.

"I meant the blue uniform," Engine says. "Your helmet was blue. And the rest had blue, white and red." His pulse kicks up a bit more. "Didn't it? Weren't you wearing blue?"

"Blue?" Matt has to concentrate to remember what that color even is. The sky. That's right. Blue is the sky. "No. I've only ever warn black or red. I'm sorry," he adds a moment later, because Engine is definitely afraid.

"S'okay. Never mind. Probably dreamed it. I dream lots of shit that never happened." Engine doesn't sound like he believes that. His left hand curls into a fist with a faint whirring sound like gears.

"It's all right," Matt says.

"Sure," Engine says softly. "We just…we just gotta wait for the Howlies to find us. It'll be fine."

Matt doesn't know how to answer that, so he doesn't. Silence drifts in like the warmth seeping into Matt's side, like the urge to sleep that's becoming harder and harder to fight. He needs to leave. He doesn't know what time it is—he's not even sure which _day_ it is—and he has clients who are likely waiting for Matt Murdock to contact them. And Karen and Foggy….

Well, he doesn't have to worry about Karen and Foggy anymore.

But he still needs to leave, before the tranquilizer traps him here again. "I have to go." He tries to move away from Engine. He misses the warmth immediately and then has to catch himself before he just tips over onto his opposite side.

Engine straightens him and tucks him back under his arm. "You're in no shape to go anywhere, pal. It's okay. Sleep it off here. I'll keep watch."

"No. I need…there are people…." It's an effort just to reopen his eyes.

"I know. They'll find us. Don't you worry. Just go to sleep. You can breathe okay like this, right? Asthma's not too bad?"

Matt falls asleep before he can ask Engine what he means.

* * *

He wakes up shivering and alone.

It's night; Matt can tell by how cold it is, though it's impossible to know how late. He's lying on the cardboard again, on his back and covered in the blanket, maybe because of his sternum. His gloves and helmet have been tucked carefully against his side. His boots are at his feet.

Something crinkles under the gloves when Matt moves them. It's a piece of torn notebook paper. He can feel the impressions of words when he runs his cold fingertips over it. Engine pressed the pencil he used very hard, scratched out a lot of what he wrote. Matt can practically feel how important the note was to him. But he can't read it.

Foggy. Matt can ask Foggy. He'll—

Foggy won't do anything for him anymore. Matt made certain of that.

He'll figure out who can help him decipher the note later. Right now he has to get home before he freezes to death. Or before Engine comes back, because all Engine would have to do is put his arm around Matt again, and Matt would be out like a light. And he's so out of it right now that most of him thinks waiting for Engine would be a fantastic idea.

Of course, Engine might not come back. He was…erratic. Remembering their conversations takes more effort than Matt can spare, but he's sure of that much. Maybe Engine forgot about him.

Or maybe he just got tired of babysitting.

Matt carefully tucks the note into the pocket with his phone, then manages to sit up without the movement hurting too badly or him falling over. It takes a long time to fasten his cowl, working with half-numb fingers. When he finally gets it attached properly all he wants to do is go back to sleep.

His boots, at least, are easier. And his sticks are inside them. Matt has no idea when Engine retrieved them for him, but he's grateful.

He owes Engine a hell of a lot. He wishes he knew the man's name.

It's a long, cold, painful struggle to get to his feet, and then he has to lean against the wall and just breathe for a while to make sure he doesn't collapse. He tries to pull back his fire again, to at least know where the damn exit is. But he almost passes out from the effort without getting anything.

At least he's pretty sure the door is ahead of him.

He gets there by increments. Shoving the door open makes him cry out in pain, and then he stands reeling in the cold, cold air. He can smell water; he's pretty sure he knows which river this is. If he's right, he can find his way home. If he's wrong….

Well, hopefully he's not wrong. Or it'll be a very, very long night.

He's not wrong, thank God, though it takes an appallingly long time to get back to a part of the city he's sure he knows. And then he's forced to the rooftops, to make sure no one sees him.

That…isn't so great. Matt can find the first fire escape without too much difficulty, but it's harder to figure out how far a drop it is to the adjacent roof. Concentrating gets him nothing; he might as well be throwing himself into a void.

He's lucky: the next roof is higher than he feared, not lower. Less than five feet, which is helpful because his knees give out when he lands. He stays there, bent over with one hand on the roof and his other arm wrapped around his aching chest. He doesn't want to move, but the cold has crept steadily through the cloth of his outfit, chilling him to the bone. If he doesn't get up now, pretty soon he won't be able to.

Matt gets up.

He staggers to the low wall at the other end of the roof, leans over it as far as he dares, reaching for any hint of what lies beyond. He can smell garbage and cats, so there's an alley between the buildings. He can't tell how wide. He grabs one of the pebbles covering the roof and tosses it. It doesn't take that long to hit the next building. He can probably make it.

He backs up until he can feel the wall on the other side of the roof behind him, then takes a few deep breaths, ignoring the pain when his chest expands. He balances on his toes, centers himself, and launches into a dead run. His foot lands squarely on the top of the wall, and he hurls himself into space.

And falls short. And keeps falling.

Matt reaches out wildly, fingers slapping uselessly against brick as his heart convulses in terror. What finally stops his fall is the metal bar of a fire escape, raking like a knife up his side. He grabs for it, manages to get one hand around it for all of a second before his momentum tears him off again. He lands on the closed lid of a dumpster, slicing another burning streak into his abdomen as he slides off onto the concrete.

He has no idea how long he lays there, bleeding and trying to breathe. He has to get up. _He has to get up._ He needs to get out of the cold, he can't let anyone find him. They'll want to help, and they'll take off his mask. And he can't…he can't….

He has to get up, but when he tries to pull himself to his feet his body fails him. The best he can do is crawl to the far side of the dumpster, which at least hides him from the street and protects him from the wind. He huddles there as best he can, shuddering from cold and pain.

A deeper, empty darkness is rising over him like a tide. Matt fumbles his cell out of his pocket, holds it in both his shaking hands to turn it on. "Call Claire," he tells it, then has to repeat the command twice before his voice is steady enough for the phone to understand him.

He will never remember what he says to her, or how he gets to her apartment or most of what happens after that. But he will remember waking up in a warm bed in the afternoon sunlight, and being absolutely certain that Engine's in the room.

It's impossible, obviously, even if the lingering scent is hauntingly familiar. There's no hot engine smell, for starters. And the scent isn't quite the same, anyway, the longer Matt thinks about it. More iron, less lightning.

It's a remnant of his spending who knows how many hours plastered to Engine's side, he decides. Or a side effect of the drug. After all, Claire would have told him if Engine had been in her apartment. And there can't be more than one person in New York who smells like that, no matter what minute differences Matt's fucked up brain invented.

So he doesn't mention it, especially not when Claire keeps making these tiny, anxious breaths, like there's something she wants to tell him but doesn't quite dare. It doesn't seem like her, but who the hell is he to think he knows anyone anymore? And what would she do if he told her anyway, other than think it was some kind of sensory hallucination?

God knows she already thinks he's crazy enough.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This story fills the **Wild Card** square of Taste_is_Sweet's [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) [Card](http://taste-is-sweet.livejournal.com/99391.html). The chosen prompt is **Drugged**.
> 
> And here's where things start to get better. :D
> 
> Hey, I got a [Tumblr](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/). :D


End file.
